


Courage

by trustingHim17



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen, John Watson's phobia, Phobias
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:21:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24279532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trustingHim17/pseuds/trustingHim17
Summary: "Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the ability to act through it."
Comments: 3
Kudos: 19





	Courage

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by an old watson's woes challenge (given prompt was the first three sentences) and one of my responses over in One-Sentence Stories.

I did not dare look at him or even move and could only hope that he would not notice my reaction. If my secret were discovered, undoubtedly his face would sport the mocking half-smile he bestowed upon a cowardly client. And he would be right; a man such as he would find my fear ridiculous. I carefully, deliberately, folded the paper and set it aside, no longer interested in the day’s news after such a revolting article. I needed to run to the tobacconist’s, anyway.

The article churned in my mind, and I tried not to dwell on the memory, suppressing the shiver of revulsion that tried to creep its way down my spine as I hurried from the room. Caught up in the agony section, Holmes gave no indication he even noticed me leave, fortunately for me. I would not return until I had conquered my reaction.

Shoving the article from my mind, I focused on my errand. The article had referred to an area on the opposite side of the city, several miles away. I was perfectly safe.

The sun was shining, and the weather pleasantly warm, so I detoured for a walk around the park on my way to the shop. A long walk and several minutes’ rest spent on a bench watching the flow of Londoners around me eventually pushed the newspaper article aside, and I continued to the tobacconist’s and back to the flat.

Holmes was still perusing the newspapers when I walked in, though now it appeared he was cutting out pertinent articles to paste into one of his scrapbooks, and I carefully walked across the room towards my chair. As often happened when he did anything relating to his records, the sitting room floor was littered with papers.

It took him a full thirty seconds to acknowledge my presence, and then only to ask, “Watson, would you hand me that paper to your left?”

Glancing over, I found today’s copy of the _Times_ on the end table next to me. I passed it to him and picked up the book that had been lying beneath it. We had no cases, having finished our most recent one a few days before, and I was grateful for a few days’ quiet before either we got a new case or Holmes slipped into one of his Black Moods. I settled into my chair with my book, and in this way, with Holmes occupied with his scrapbooks and I with my novel, we slowly passed the afternoon. It had been several weeks since we had last boasted such a relaxing day, and I quite enjoyed it.

Sometime after supper, Holmes mentioned something about needing another copy of the newspaper and stepped out, probably to get one from the booth down the street. I barely noticed at the time. My novel had reached the climax, and I was completely absorbed.

Fifteen minutes later, I closed the book with a sigh and wondered what I wanted to read next. The book had ended with a sudden twist, leaving me disappointed and hungry for more, and I knew I would never get to sleep unless I found something else to read before bed.

I started browsing the shelves in the sitting room, looking for something to catch my attention, but nothing sounded appealing. There was a romance novel I had read dozens of times, another sea novel like the one I had just finished, and a novel I had bought one day on impulse and never read, among many others, but my substantial library held nothing to catch my interest. Even the fast-paced science fiction novel I had thoroughly enjoyed the first time I had read it held no appeal, so I went up to my room to continue searching.

Holmes returned with the slamming of the door, but I paid him no mind. He would probably return to cutting newspaper articles for his commonplace books, and I would rejoin him downstairs as soon as I found something to read. I focused on the few novels I stored in my room, browsing through them absently as I tried to find something as captivating as the ending of my previous novel.

Holmes barged into my room as I tried to make up my mind. “Watson!”

“Yes, Holmes?” I replied without looking. Should I read a yellow-backed novel at random, or should I read one of that American author’s books? His stories in the American South were rather interesting, if a bit far-fetched. Getting paid to let someone else to paint your fence? I seriously doubted even a child would fall for that. I knew our Irregulars certainly never would, though they might be able to convince a child who wasn’t street-smart to pay _them_ , if only because they were persistent that way.

“Come, Watson! We have a case!”

“What case?” I turned in time to catch the jacket he had thrown at me just before it could smack me in the face.

“Questions later. The game is afoot!”

I looked up at him, about to ask him just how he had managed to find a case at a now-closed newspaper booth after nine at night, when movement behind him caught my eye. I froze, and the smirk at his pet phrase fell from my face as the shiver from earlier suddenly slithered its way down my spine. I stared in horror, the jacket dropping from my limp fingers.

“Watson?”

There was question in his voice, and perhaps a touch of worry, but I had no answer for him. The fear, intense hatred, and near panic shooting through me left no room for words, even words of warning. I wanted to freeze. I wanted to freeze and shake and wait for it to go away, but the thing was in _my room_ , where I _slept_. Venomous or not, I would not allow it to disappear after intruding on my bedroom.

I lunged for my end table, ripping open the drawer so quickly it nearly clattered to the floor as I aimed my revolver.

Holmes’ eyes widened, but, to his credit, he didn’t flinch as I fired two quick shots over his head.

The five-foot long grass snake fell to the floor from its spot on the doorframe just behind him, and I realized my head was spinning, my heart was pounding, and I was trembling. My breathing was erratic to the point of nearly hyperventilating, which explained my lightheadedness.

A long moment of silence filled the room, and with Holmes looking back and forth between that truly gigantic grass snake and me, I fought to get my breathing under control and slow my trembling, without passing out in the process. I really needed to remember to breathe when something like this happened, but it was hard to remember to do _anything_ , much less something as traditionally automatic as breathing, when all I could think about was getting that _thing_ away from me.

I automatically glanced towards the doorway again at the thought, destroying any progress I had made in slowing my trembling. My hands clenched, and I realized I still held the revolver in my dominant hand, though it was pointed at the floor. I considered dropping it, but the battle instincts still coursing through me refused to relinquish my weapon, so I used the texturing on the revolver handle as a focus, running my thumb over it again and again until my breathing evened out and I no longer shook like a leaf.

As I slowly calmed down, I braced myself for the ridicule. Holmes was afraid of nothing, and I had just made my all-consuming fear of snakes painfully obvious. He never let another’s fear pass without comment. I shivered again, an image of that thing making it further than the doorway crossing my mind.

When I finally found my voice, he still remained quiet, so I offered him a way out.

“Maybe you should leave me behind on this case.” Shoving my revolver back into the drawer with a shaking hand, I picked up my jacket and sat on the bed, refusing to look at the mocking half-smile I was sure Holmes was casting in my direction.

“There is no case,” he replied evenly.

I glanced up at him in surprise to find him several steps away from where he had been, still surreptitiously glancing between me and that scaly rope coiled in my doorway.

“No case?” I repeated. “But you said—”

“There is no case,” he repeated, “not anymore.” He affected a shrug, but his gaze kept straying to the dead snake. I tried not to follow suit. Another thread of revulsion sent a shiver down my back every time I thought of that living, writhing tentacle being in my bedroom. “I ran into Lestrade on the way home. The handler whose snake escaped three days ago asked for the Yard’s help, as the snake was large for its species, and he worried that people would panic if they knew it had not yet been found.”

The laugh bubbling up at his dry, almost disappointed tone had a slight tinge of hysteria to it, and I shoved it back down. I had disgraced myself enough this night. There was no reason to compound the issue.

I had to clear my throat twice before I could speak in my normal pitch, and I forced my gaze to _not_ look at the revolting rope in my doorway. “Well, I do apologize for ruining your case.” I sincerely hoped losing the case would not propel him into boredom. I wasn’t sure I could handle that right then.

“Watson—”

Here it came. I braced myself for the ridicule coming for being terrified of snakes. With the exception of the rare adder, our island’s snakes were not even venomous, but I had despised snakes for as long as I could remember. Even the smallest smooth snake or similar slow worm had the ability to paralyze me on sight. It was neither rational nor logical, but I had failed to conquer it and had eventually given up trying after each attempt spawned nightmares worse than the real thing.

“Next time warn me before you shoot over my head?”

I snapped my head up to catch his gaze. The corner of his mouth twitched in a genuine smile, not the mocking half-smile I had expected. Where was the ridicule?

I nodded hesitantly, waiting for the other shoe to drop, as it were. I had displayed an illogical, ridiculous fear, and he who feared nothing was sure to comment on it.

My gaze strayed back to the limp vine in my doorway, and a vibrating sound reached my ears. I glanced down. I was bouncing my leg on a loose board and rattling the end table. I hooked one ankle under the other. The rattling stopped.

“Why are you afraid of snakes?”

I tensed but answered, in a way. “Do you remember years ago when that young Burmese Python escaped from the zoo, only to be found in a child’s playroom?” He nodded, understanding beginning to dawn on his face. “I was seven, and I didn’t realize the new toy I had found was alive until it wrapped itself around my arm.” I had despised any and all snakes ever since, each one reminding me of the confusion giving way to utter terror as a giant living rope wound itself around my arm and stuck its divided tongue in my face. Even at seven, I had known that a snake that size was a constrictor, and the young python’s body was thicker than my arm and longer than I was tall. My screams had brought the entire household running. I tried not to shudder again at the memory, but I rather doubt I succeeded.

The silence stretched for a long moment, and I waited, staring at the floor, for the mocking comment I knew was coming. Crossing my ankles had silenced the rattling end table, but I could still feel myself trembling. I clasped my hands, trying to hide it.

“I have to agree with you,” he finally said. “I certainly would not want one in my room, either.”

I glanced up at him again, trying to understand from where that comment had come. Where was the mocking? The derision? He was staring at me still, but all I saw in his gaze was understanding, perhaps a hint of compassion, and…was that respect? That made no sense. I casually turned, putting the snake out of my sight path and my back firmly against the headboard as I looked at Holmes. After expecting derision, the understanding alone confused me, but the respect I thought I saw completely mystified me. He was a skilled actor, and I had endeavored to teach him some tact in our time together, whatever that was worth, but he never employed those abilities when dealing with cowardice. He had derided several clients for cowardice over the years. Why should I be any different?

He looked at me questioningly. “Why are you expecting me to mock you?”

“Because it’s a harmless grass snake, no matter that it is nearly double the average size; it’s not even venomous. It is ridiculous and cowardly to fear such a thing.”

He glanced toward the door again, then back at me, and I repositioned to keep the entire door out of my line of vision. “I see nothing cowardly in shooting such a snake in your bedroom.” _Especially considering you started trembling on sight_.

He may not have spoken the last part aloud, but I heard it all the same. I relaxed a fraction.

“Courage is not the absence of fear,” he said as if quoting, “but rather the ability to act through it.” He glanced at my door again, and his implication was clear.

Seeing me relax further, he gained the expression that said he found something curious but was unsure if he should or could ask, and I might have smiled if it were not for the thought of the thing intruding further on my room sneaking its way into my mind again. The lessons in tact I had been trying to teach him must have had some effect over the years. When we had first met, he would have blurted his question no matter the possible reaction.

“Go ahead.”

He looked at me, feigning ignorance. “Go ahead, what?”

I barely refrained from rolling my eyes at him, unable to believe that he had no idea what I meant. This was the detective who was not only frequently accused of reading minds, but who also had told me several times how easily readable I was.

“Ask your question,” I told him. “I know you are curious about something else.”

He glanced back toward the door, still hesitating slightly, and I wondered what he was thinking. “Why two shots?” he finally asked. “I have seen your skill with a revolver. I have _relied_ on your skill with a revolver. The second shot was unnecessary.”

I thought about it a moment, my gratification at the second compliment fading under my consideration of the question. Why had I fired twice? I hadn’t exactly been thinking about it at the time. I had just fired.

“The first to kill it,” I told him seriously. “The second to make sure it was dead.”

One of his rare laughs broke free at my deadpanned explanation, but he made no reply, only turning toward the door again and calmly regarding the corpse piled in my doorway. In that moment, as I firmly kept my gaze focused anywhere _but_ at the door, I envied him his control. An image of finding the thing in my bed nearly started my leg bouncing again, and I casually crossed my ankles, fighting the irrational urge to strip my bed and search the room. Only one snake had escaped, I reminded myself, and no others would venture this far into the city.

“Lestrade will be glad to know it has been found,” he said drily.

I snorted. “ _You_ ought to be glad Mrs. Hudson is visiting her sister.”

A distant look crossed his face as he imagined that encounter, and he nodded. “Indubitably.” He glanced at me again. “If I take it outside, can you start cleaning the floor?”

Another shiver shot down my spine at the thought, but I nodded, firmly keeping my gaze away from the door until Holmes was well down the stairs. When I was sure the coast was clear, I went for the washroom, knowing Mrs. Hudson had taken to leaving a few cleaning supplies up here with how often Holmes’ experiments necessitated them, and got to work clearing the stain from the floor. Holmes joined me when he came back a moment later, and the stain my actions had caused soon disappeared with his help.

Holmes went to put the supplies away and send a runner to Lestrade, and I was left staring at my room. Even knowing the snake was dead and gone, I found I hesitated at the idea of being in there again, of sleeping in there. Shuddering again at the thought of that gruesome thing making it to my bed, I ducked in only to grab my revolver. Feeling marginally—however illogically—safer with it in the pocket of my dressing gown, I descended to the sitting room, where I shoved the revolver in my desk drawer before collapsing into my chair. My hands still shook with fine tremors, and I gripped the chair to still the shaking.

Holmes returned a moment later after sending his message to Lestrade, and a drink appeared in front of me. I took it with a nod of thanks but kept my gaze on the fire, trying and failing to banish the thought of a snake in my bedroom from my mind. I could think of nothing else, and with every thought, another thread of loathing twisted its way down my spine.

I was grateful for his company, though I never voiced as much. He most likely knew this, for he stayed with me, and we sat in silence for several hours before he eventually took himself off to bed. I spent the night on the settee.

**Author's Note:**

> This is dedicated to a family member that absolutely despises snakes. They'll know who they are


End file.
